


pavlov

by catteeth



Category: Room No. 9 (Visual Novel)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Drug Use, M/M, Mild Gore, Mind Break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26965627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catteeth/pseuds/catteeth
Summary: They say that your body sheds close to forty-thousand dead skin cells per day. By that metric, Seiji doesn’t carry much of his old self at all.
Relationships: Azumi Seiji/Kobayashi Daichi, Azumi Seiji/Mob Character(s)
Kudos: 14





	pavlov

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing in here is worse than the source content. It's navel-gazing porn.

Even now, out of the hotel room and back home, Seiji wakes up hard and panting from a nightmare in which he’s on display. 

Daichi is there, as always, expressionless but staring, but there are others, too: demons, maybe, watching from cameras that are then feeding into televisions elsewhere that he can’t see. They pick and choose what to torture him with that day, sometimes vibrators, sometimes a fuck machine, sometimes Daichi, plucked from the side as if nothing but a toy himself. 

_Fuck him!_ they jeer, happy for the show, but Daichi resists, can’t even get hard. Meanwhile, Seiji’s cock is already leaking.

 _Look at him,_ they titter. _What a whore_. _He already wants it, you can tell. Made to take it up the ass—_

_*_

Dreams like this happen almost nightly, despite the sleeping pills. Sometimes, if it’s not sex, it’s violence, where Seiji dreams of Daichi’s sobbing face as he plucks out a left eye like it’s nothing, amputates a leg from the knee down with the dull edge of a hacksaw. Blood pools and spreads out across the hotel room floor, and Seiji moves as if a robot, slowly lifting each carpet tile one-by-one. He tosses them into the exchange chamber alongside Daichi’s now-useless body parts. New tiles will arrive in the morning, but Daichi cannot be put back together again.

These things don’t arouse Seiji. Instead, it’s his dreamself who gets a sick thrill out of it. He takes care to bandage Daichi’s eye and what’s left of his leg, holds his lips together to suppress a smile.

 _Look,_ this version of Seiji says to him. He pumps a little more morphine into the amateur IV and sets a finger where Daichi’s eye socket lays raw and empty underneath the bandage. He doesn’t flinch. _Aren’t you happy with how things ended up?_ and it’s true: being a slut isn’t so bad compared to what could have been.

_*_

They say that your body sheds close to forty-thousand dead skin cells per day. By that metric, Seiji doesn’t carry much of his old self at all. He lives his life this way, telling himself that the old Seiji died in that room, and whoever came out isn’t him but some great imposter with the same name and likeness. At least Daichi is different, too. It’s good to not be alone. 

Daichi calls Seiji often, and they listen to each other’s static breathing on the other line in silence. It’s Daichi who refuses to meet, stubborn at first, afraid of what he might do, but in their quiet game of back and forth, he gives in. Vaguely, Seiji remembers that his old self was also stubborn. Now, all he cares about is sex.

 _This is how it is now, huh_ , Daichi says, already bottomed out deep inside Seiji’s ass less than ten minutes of arriving at his apartment. He’s got Seiji pinned nicely between the wall and his cock, mouth attached to his neck like a leech. The way Seiji’s cock rubs up against the wall with each thrust is excruciating, putting him on the edge of coming too soon, and he knows how it looks: a whore dying to get off, a whore dying to get his ass filled. It makes him sick with how bad he wants it.

 _Of course this is how it is now,_ he wants to say, but doesn’t. _There isn’t any other way._

_*_

It doesn’t take long before Seiji fucks a coworker during his lunch break. 

He does it because Daichi can’t get away, and if he goes too long without it, he gets panicky, the feeling of being empty for too long making him restless and irritable. The coworker is old and fat, a few levels Seiji’s superior: a person of convenience, a bandaid. At this point, anyone with a working cock will do. Seiji hates this about himself.

The first time they fuck, it’s nothing special. Seiji offers himself up on an office desk, back arched and cheeks spread, already lubed and stretched from when he excused himself during a meeting to text Daichi. For all the bragging Seiji’s heard, older men aren’t that great of a fuck, and it’s nothing like being with Daichi. It scratches the itch, though, keeps him satiated until he needs it again.

The second time they fuck, it’s different. The coworker gives him something that he's instructed to inhale, something that makes him feel _really_ _fucking good_ for probably less than even five minutes, but it’s enough to loosen his muscles, make him all hot below the waist. If asked, it's just happenstance that they fuck a third, a fourth, a fifth time, and any time after that, Seiji's too far gone to care.

*

Daichi doesn’t even bother asking questions anymore, just pounds Seiji against the cold wall of the izakaya bathroom after dinner.

*

Seiji has become something disgusting. A dog, maybe, or a common whore.

Daichi kneels down and spreads him open with his fingers, lets the come of five strangers pour out onto the concrete. It’s frothy from being churned up, used as lube, and then fucked back up into Seiji’s asshole for the better part of three hours. Shaking, he writhes helplessly on the ground and moans.

 _More, please_ , Seiji manages. Even blissed out and dick-drunk, he can tell just how swollen his mouth is from the abuse, so much so that it almost hurts to talk, his lips like blubber, fat strings of drool leaking out as he begs.

Daichi isn’t stupid: Seiji knows he knows what he wants. Before unzipping his slacks to free himself, Daichi reaches into his pocket and drops a small bottle onto Seiji’s lap. _Here you go_ , he says reassuringly, smiling in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Daichi takes him on the dark asphalt of the park’s trail, and Seiji’s back grates rough against the concrete with each thrust, both of them too keyed up to move to the bathroom or even the nearby grass. It doesn’t last long when Daichi leans down and presses their bodies flush together, kissing him. It's always Daichi’s tongue that pushes Seiji over the edge. It’s delicious, how he forces it so far down his throat that he’s sure Daichi can taste every last drop of come he’s ever drank, every cock he's ever sucked, and the thought of that is so foul, so disgusting, that he comes in spurts onto his stomach.

Post-orgasm anxiety barely sets in. Daichi's soft touch works him back to hardness as he pumps into him slow and steady now, and Seiji is thankful for it. Anything else, and he'd regret it: it's another half-hour until the next group arrives. 


End file.
